


Enslaved Prince

by poisoned_mackerel



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe - Historical, Arranged Marriage, Corporal Punishment, F/M, Forced Marriage, Forced Pregnancy, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Manipulation, Non-Consensual Spanking, POV First Person, Paddling, Post-Revolution, Public Humiliation, Public Nudity, Scheming, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:48:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24543322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisoned_mackerel/pseuds/poisoned_mackerel
Summary: Stavron is the Prince of Aameria. Now that his Royal parents are dead, he is still alive by a miracle only. But at what cost!The revolutionary who's usurped the power does whatever he wants to Stavron.Maybe, Stavron should be glad that his trials are limited to public spankings once a week... even if the whole court watches.
Relationships: Narrator/Original Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Enslaved Prince

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, dear readers!
> 
> It's a short and sad story of a prince that has survived dark times... well, for him the dark times are not over.  
> Heed the tags.
> 
> Have a nice time reading!

Since the rebellion had swallowed our country, the prince of Aameria, Stavron, doesn’t have a minute of peace. Today won't be an exception.

I take my place in the first row. The great ballroom is well-lit, and all prominent noble families are gathered here. I still can’t get used to being at the center of attention - years of trying your damn hardest to stay in the shadows will do that to you. I don’t regret my decision to spy on my gentle - and naive - Mistress but I wish I could’ve retained the relative anonymity the life of a servant gives you. My Mistress, the previous Queen, has been kind to those around her until her last breath. I will never forget her begging the warriors that invaded the palace to not touch the servants since they were not responsible for the Royal family’s mistakes. I watched the Queen die and her three children be taken by the heads of the rebellion. Or should I say, “the Revolution of Anemones”?  
I scoff. I’ve never approved of the name. Who’d know our righteous leader, King Yadiel, has such a poor fantasy?

But enough of bitter recollections; they will wait until I return to my rooms. I am here for the show, as, I am sure, are the others. I look around: all places at the festive tables are taken. Well-dressed people talk about the weather and joke about the vile taste of the previous dynasty. If I didn’t know better, I could’ve mistaken it for a normal evening.  
It is not.

  
My thoughts drift to the King’s wife. Always in search of more ways to lower the image of the previous regime, Yadiel has married the deceased king’s oldest daughter. In my opinion, this is not the worst outcome for her. Far from it, actually.

If the girl is smart, she’ll turn the situation in her favour one day and make her spouse do as she bids. She’s pretty enough for that - and got pregnant fast. Even brutish men like Yadiel are weak to their own offspring.

They say, she is in her fourth month of pregnancy. She’s showing alright. The Queen needs to be extra careful right now. Even if the idea of bearing the child of her oppressor in her belly disgusts her, that very child is her best defence.

As if hearing my thoughts, the ruling couple emerges from the big wooden doors at the end of the hall.  
I watch them from the corner of my eyes before it becomes convenient to openly ogle them. With love and devotion shining from our eyes, of course.

There she is, our Lady-Queen, bravely waddling alongside her one-eyed master, our King, Yadiel the First. I hate to admit it, but Yadiel looks good in rich clothes. His handsome face and long black hair make up for his lacking eyeball. The room erupts in cheerful greetings. No one stands up - on his first day on the throne, Yadiel has announced that standing in the presence of the king is outdated and that he will say when he wants us to rise to our feet to show how much we care (about his posturing, ha).

I appreciate his leniency. These walls are my witnesses, I didn’t spend much time sitting in my previous life, while I was still the Ex-Queen's servant.  
When the King gives a sign, I jump to my feet. I clap and shout as do the peacocks and painted dolls next to me.

It’s loud, vulgar and gross.

I’d stay away from here (I know all this doesn’t make me a better person) but I don’t want to be ostracized, like some less clever folks.  
There’s a group of nobles that refuses to join our merry Saturday gatherings. Soon, they will have to leave our young society permanently… but it will wait. We need to establish our power first. For now, Yadiel the First will take support wherever he can.

The King and the Queen take their places at the twin throne-like seats at the stage, to the left from the center. The King’s wife wears a grey veil hiding her face today. Hmm. It’s a miracle she was allowed this small mercy. I wonder what she’s done to deserve the right to close her eyes surreptitiously behind the gauze barrier.  
At least she’s learning. That’s a positive sign.

While I was observing the Queen, the King prepared himself to deliver his tirade.  
I watch Yadiel stand up high at the edge of the stage, clap his hands together and speak up in his boisterous manner:

“Well, well, my dears! Happy to greet you here, darlings! I am glad to confirm that you all take your duty seriously. As I told you before, I am a merciful King. You’re all aware that I didn’t kill the poor children of the old monarch. It’s not their fault they were raised by the bastard king as they were. We know, they’re a liability. But I am willing to sacrifice my time and efforts to make a change in their blond heads.”

Yadiel gives us time to laugh and offer different ways of reforming the little shits.  
I laugh and the smile never leaves my face but I keep my mouth shut for now.  
The Queen tries to flatten herself against her seat behind her crown-bearing husband.

“It’s taken quite an effort on my part to explain to my dear little wife what I require from her to build a new, righteous, free society!”

The pregnant girl with the veil winces.

Yadiel pauses again to let us, the dressed-up crowd of newly rich or newly noble people, to shower him in praise. We do so with vigour. We live to please, after all.

I’ve joined in, this time, only because my silence would’ ve become suspicious.  
The big words feel slimy on my tongue.

Yadiel shushes us and finishes his short speech (I wonder if his speeches will grow longer the longer he rules):

“I remind you: we’ve gathered here to celebrate the re-education of the ex-king’s second child, the notorious Prince Stavron! It’s a lot of responsibility so let’s take it earnestly and help our dear boy become a new person!”

The King gives a sign to the head of the guard, and the show begins.

The lights in the great hall dim, only the way from the doors to the stage and the stage itself stay lit. First, nothing happens, but then, light steps can be heard. The carpets here are so thick that Stavron’s four guards don’t make almost any noise. Not to mention that Stavron, naked and barefoot, as well-built as he is for his sixteen, doesn’t produce any sounds at all.

Stavron has his hands and feet chained. Sweet and frail-looking chains are nothing but a symbol; there’s something much more powerful that doesn’t allow Stavron to try to murder his guards or commit suicide by attempting to take Yadiel’s life.  
Stavron’s two strengths, quick wit and training in martial arts, are well counterbalanced by two aces up Yadiel’s sleeve: Stavron’s elder sister and Stavron’s younger sister. One sitting right there, in full view of the punishment bench, the other locked up in her room, with only her dog and her nanny for company.

Stavron won’t do anything that might hurt them.

He could have been on the other end of the country, collecting an army with his uncles. He could have run several times but he never did. There was never a chance he could have taken both girls with him - the Anemone revolutionaries prepared for all eventualities.  
Stavron gave up and kneeled in front of Yadiel when the latter threatened to behead the little girl right there.

I feel some sort of pity for the Prince. The utter humiliation he is about to experience could have been easily avoided if he wasn’t so morally upstanding. Like father, like son, they say. Good will and human decency became the downfall of the previous dynasty, and they will be Stavron’s burden for the rest of his life.

Meanwhile, the procession reaches the stage. Two guards go up the stairs before the captive Prince and two - after. They come to the punishment bench and stop. The guards retreat to the sides not to obscure the view. The Prince positions himself in front of the bench. His spine is rigid, every muscle of his back is tense. He needs to do one more small thing to adhere to the procedure Yadiel’s invented for him.  
I imagine how Stavron takes a breath and braces himself before turning around to face the crowd. To face us. Yes, here he is, standing in the middle of the stage, his chained arms crossed in front of his crotch to keep a modicum of dignity  
I admit, Stavron has an air of nobility. When I have the opportunity to look at his face, I can confirm for myself: the young man doesn’t look broken.  
That’s for the better; if he breaks, he won’t be a good entertainment anymore. Not for long, at least. His sisters need him alive, and we want to see him disciplined.

Stavron is not exactly pretty. He has angular features: sharp cheekbones, a long nose, slightly bent to the side. His eyes have become more expressive since his caption. Just four months ago, he was a bored teen who only cared about his dogs and horses. Now, the steely grey of his eyes is layered with cold fury. I fear him. I would’ve preferred for our kind and all-forgiving Master to kill the boy and the younger girl. Now it’s not too late either... I know venoms; a quick, painless death would not be a problem. The girl could go to bed and never wake up... That’s what happened to some of the previous king’s advisors when the rebellion was only starting. But I got distracted again.

The Prince’s disciplinarian has entered the stage already. He is dressed in something garishly violet. There's embroidery on his shoulder. Is it an anemone? I barely prevent a sneer from appearing on my face. That’s sheer mockery.  
Another violet-clad servant is standing beside the disciplinarian and holding a paddle. Or should I say: The Paddle? It’s been made for this singular ass, after all. It’s nothing out of the ordinary if a bit fancy for an instrument of punishment; just a rectangular piece of mahogany with a secure handle. The Prince is ordered to lean onto the seat of the bench with his arms: to show the viewers that his ass cheeks have healed from the last time. I am not worried; the servants know which salve to apply. I make sure of it.

The crowd cheers approvingly. I make a whistle, and my admiration is sincere; the Prince’s ass is a work of art. Two thick, pale, round ass cheeks. I was right when I recommended using a paddle instead of a cane on him. Nothing brings out the beauty of Stavron’s backside better than a good spanking. He bruises so easily and heals so nicely, too.

Dressing for this event, I made sure to wear looser breeches than usual. I didn’t go wrong.

The merciful King is satisfied with the results of the inspection, too. He exclaims: “Let this honest implement teach our young noble a lesson in humility!” and makes himself comfortable on his chair-throne.

The King has said the words, and the discipline may begin.

I tense in anticipation. The last time Stavron made a good job of keeping himself together. But the two times before that, he cried and whimpered so pitifully that I heard cooing from some ladies who were seated around me.  
I want to hear the Prince beg before King Yadiel the First gets bored of him. Maybe, I need to step in and offer other methods of punishment. A ginger root applied to Stavron’s asshole will change his attitude in no time…

I need to focus, though. I will have the entire evening to daydream in the safety of my rooms.

In a perverse attempt at humour, the discipline bench is made to remind of a throne. Isn’t it one too many thrones in one room? But whatever. I am not the one directing this farce.  
The bench is big. The construction’s legs are sturdy and covered in an elaborate design. The upholstery is a rich burgundy velvet. It has a high back, like a chair’s. About a half of the “seat” is flat and padded, the other is some sort of a cushioned box. The Prince is supposed to kneel on the edge of the bench and lean over the box, resting his upper body on it.  
Without any delays or posturing, Stavron kneels. He stretches his bound hands on the cushioned box in front of him to make it work. He is not allowed to move his hands during his discipline.  
Stavron’s chained feet dangle from the edge. The bottoms of his feet are dirty; it’s not a pleasant sight amid such a display of wealth. I make a mental note to order the guards to walk Stavron to the hall in some footwear, so that he could bare his feet only to walk the well-kept carpets here. The arches of his soles are elegant, and I hum admiringly. It would be nice to see his feet birched, too...

I sigh lightly. What’s with my attention today?

In the center of the stage, the disciplinarian measures up the distance he needs to maintain between himself and the punished boy, gives a perfunctory slap to the boy’s rear and it starts.

The first slap makes Stavron yelp loudly. His plump flesh bounces under the blow, reddening already. Slap. Slap. Slap. The disciplinarian is a sensible man. His punishments are severe but he never hurts Stavron more than necessary to please the King. I heard that the man called forth and offered his services when he learned what treatment awaited the Prince. I think he did so to prevent things from going south. I will have in mind that the disciplinarian has a soft spot for the royal children.

The next few blows are heavier. Stavron yelps and hisses. His poor butt is already as red as a very ripe apple. The disciplinarian changes sides and starts hitting with the same force from the left instead of from the right.

The chains jingle as Stavron continues to squirm on the rich red velvet. He flexes the muscles of his thighs, trying to disperse the sting but new blows keep coming and it’s no use. Stavron dissolves into sobs over an especially mean hit to his seat spot. Poor, stupid thing.  
From my seat in the front row, I can see everything clearly: the King, who is watching avidly; the Queen, who, as I predicted, has her eyes closed shut and tear streaks on her cheeks; the red-assed Prince, who has no power left to hide his overwhelming emotions and shrieks into the upholstery.

Stavron’s thighs begin to jiggle uncontrollably one moment, and the disciplinarian slows his pace a little to give him a chance to adjust.  
For a few sets of spanks, Stavron just lies there, crying softly. Then, the disciplinarian changes sides again and increases the force behind his blows. The desperate Prince starts wailing quietly.

His breath hitches on sobs, his ass is bright-red all over, but he stays in position and holds his hands where he is supposed to. Stavron tenses and hisses each time the vicious paddle connects to his backside. It’s dark-crimson, violet in places, and the spanks still don’t stop. The hits now must hurt very badly. But, unlike his first time on this bench, Stavron doesn’t beg for mercy.

I see that he really wants to, that he has to bite back words and control himself with what’s left of his strength.

The blows fall on Stavron’s battered asscheeks in rapid succession now; strong and heavy. It’s obvious when the fight leaves him: Stavron allows himself to go limp over the cushioned box of the bench and continues crying. Ugly sobs break his frame; his ass all but glows with the results of his punishment. Stavron’s feet twitch and dance on the edge of the seat, making the delicate chains sing in tact with the spanks.

Finally, the paddling stops.

The King expresses his wish to inspect the damage.  
He stands up from his seat and strolls to the red punishment bench. His Queen is on the verge of collapsing, from the looks of it. I will need to show my concern for the baby in the Queen’s womb. If she continues to visit these painful corrections of her beloved younger brother, Yadiel might lose his heir. It needs to be avoided by all costs.

On the stage, Yadiel runs his palms over the shivering buttocks of the disciplined Prince.

The bruises are dark and ominous. This ass must be so hot, so raw to the touch. So very puffy. I think I will conduct an inspection of my own today. Later, when the boy is brought to his room.

It’s fortunate that I command the servants who take care of the poor Prince after his Saturday paddlings. I need to make sure they give our poor noble all the care he requires to be able to endure his next discipline as well.

My hands itch with how much I want to be in place of Yadiel right now. Touching these aching, burning cheeks, feeling Stavron’s shivers… Giving him his pain medication and treating his sore skin with salves… Having him pliant and helpless under me… Ah, the golden chains on his arms and feet look so alluring.

Yadiel watches how the guards maneuver Stavron from the bench and help him stand on quivering legs.

After the crowd gets enough of him, the boy is led away. People leer, shout lewd things at him. Did the Prince get enough? Maybe, he needs his paddling to be more severe? Many offer their help.

Heathens.

Actually, if someone let me decide... I would’ve made the paddling itself shorter but added cane strokes on top. Stavron would look positively charming with deep burgundy welts crossing his paddled cheeks…

I realise in that moment that I need to get Stavron away from here. It needs to be done quickly because if the King fucks him (and he wants to, I can see it), then the Prince will break irreparably. Then his doom will be inevitable.

I ignore the voice in the back of my mind that reminds me of how dangerous Stavron is for me. I decide to forget that I wished death upon him less than an hour ago.

I watch Stavron limp his way to the room where he’s lived all his life and where he’s being kept prisoner now and rule out opportunities after opportunities in my head.

Gotcha! I have an idea now.

…

It’s almost midnight when I enter Stavron’s room. It didn’t change much: some pieces of furniture are missing, and a few blood spots mar the wallpaper at the entrance (that’s where Stavron’s dog has been killed; the loyal thing tried to protect her master to the end). There is no sense in dwelling on the losses of the past though, and I push dark memories out of my mind.

Stavron is lying ass-up on his bed. He’s hugging a pillow and sniffling. When he looks up at me over his shoulder, I can barely contain an appreciative comment. This way, freshly spanked and devoid of his stubbornness for the time being, Stavron looks like a sorry little brat, not a proud Prince.

And suddenly, my idea crystallizes into a decision.

“I will sell you to Alaric, the King of Remavia,” I tell the Prince. “If you promise to comply with what I say.”

He eyes me distrustingly, then squints at me as if he can’t believe what I am saying and doesn’t understand why I’m saying this simultaneously.  
Immediately, Stavron’s demeanor changes and his tone turns mocking.

“Why would I even want that?”

I decide that bluntness is my best tool.  
“Do you want Yadiel to rape you?”

Stavron blanches.

While he is silent, I sit on a chair across from him and explain that his country is on the verge of another war.

“I didn’t count for Remavia’s interest in our inner politics,” I admit ruefully. “But now I know that they will strike when Aameria is at its weakest. If they’ll have you, as their King’s consort, it’ll give them some rights for the throne of Aameria which is good for you and your sisters in the long run.”

“You’re a traitor!” Stavron accuses, not without reason. “I shouldn’t even talk to you!”

I shrug.

“I am a traitor, indeed, and you are an enslaved Prince whose once-to-be-subjects laugh at his embarrassment and pain every Saturday. I am also the one who keeps an eye on your routines after your whippings; the one who sends you salves and makes sure that you’re fed, watered and warm after your trials.”

I give Stavron a minute to absorb it all, then twist the knife:  
“I think you need to listen to me because no one else gives a damn.”

Suspicion and hope war in the Prince’s grey eyes. Suspicion wins.

“What do you gain from it?”

At last, a sensible question from my Prince! He’s not without prospect!

I explain patiently:

“I will gain trust of both King Yadiel and King Alaric. You will be a consort, a person of importance. Alaric is not a crazy man. He won’t run you ragged as Yadiel does.”

“But… my sisters. They will stay all alone here.”

“How many times did you see them this month?”

At this question, Stavron’s face loses all expression.

“I promise you I will arrange a meeting for you before you leave for Remavia. Your older sister is safe for now. Your younger sister will be needed to keep the older in check. If Remavia starts a war… Then it might become a problem. But how will you save them, locked in your room and absolutely powerless?”

I see that Stavron is seriously considering my plan. He just needs one more push .

“And how do I know it won’t be worse than here?”

“I can’t promise anything. But at least, Alaric won’t kill you because a fancy struck him.”

Stavron nods.

“What do you need from me?”

I tell him my plan. If Stavron acts right, Alaric will eat from his hands.

Changing sides amid a battle is such a hassle.

“You realize I will have to help you lose virginity before you meet your spouse, right, boy?”

His scared gasp is music to my ears.

…

Three months later, I watch Alaric put a golden ring on Stavron’s finger and a heavy golden collar on his neck.

I am going abroad with my Prince, as his main “caretaker'' and Yadiel’s spy.

Alaric expects me to put all Aameria’s in his hands by relaying important information about Yadiel and his men.

Stavron hopes I won’t leave him alone in a foreign country and that I, by some miraculous flash of intuition, will find a way to save his sisters.

I just want to stay alive during the next war and secure my place at the court. At any safe and stable court there will be at the time.

On the bridge at the border between Aameria and Remavia, the King’s carriage stops. I travel on my horse, following the cortege. From my vantage point, I can see clearly how Alaric drags Stavron out of the carriage, naked save from his boots and a cape. There’s something glinting between his legs. No way! Did the king cage his consort’s cock? How intriguing!

The two come to the bridge’s railing. If I’m not mistaken, the king holds a little key in his hand. In front of horrified Stavron, the key flies into the full river beneath.

Alaric pets Stavron’s head roughly and practically carries him back to the carriage.

At one point, Stavron's eyes meet mine.  
I shudder.

I've made a mistake.

There and then, I decide that Stavron mustn't survive long enough to assume his power (if he does).

I shake off the uneasy feeling and gee up my horse; it doesn’t befit to fall behind the march of history.

The train of carriages and horses continues down the road. Alaric’s people look calm and careless. They don't know what their new companion means for this world.

The clouds shimmer above my head.

It's going to be raining.

**Author's Note:**

> What you think about our narrator? I called him "dark-grey" in my head. For he is not completely evil as he tries to not succumb to the worst of his instincts, but his actions are always very selfish. 
> 
> And the baby Prince? He's such a sweetheart, right?
> 
> Did you imagine what happens next?
> 
> 🍑🍑🍑
> 
> Thank you for reading!  
> Please, leave a comment, even if it consists of one word, it's very important for me!


End file.
